Fragile
by Toejones
Summary: “I do believe you are more fragile than I...mentally” Gregory whispered, suddenly very close to my ear. I pushed him away softly. “Why would you say such a zing? You are ze fragile one” I scoffed...............T for language and very few scary images


_Your breath comes ragged; your heart is racing a million miles per hour. You live for the rush; that surge of adrenaline pumping through your veins, making your head spin and your knees go weak. You crave it; this rush, the exhilaration. Trees speed by in your peripheral vision, a million little blurs of different greens and reds and browns. The colors all meld together; almost unrecognizable in the darkness of the forest path. You can feel your legs going numb. You're running far too fast to look where your going, and you can feel the precious cargo you hold slipping from you grasp.  
Trying to slow down to adjust the package, you lose your balance and fall. You hear a crack and a rustle, and you're hanging upside down. Now how'd that happen? A quick check of your surroundings reveals no immediate threat, but you can feel that the 'cargo' isn't in your arms any longer. You look down… or up… You look towards the ground. Sure enough there it is, still wrapped up tightly in a cloth.  
Now you look towards the sky. Your ankles are caught with a rope. Reaching for your pocket knife you realize that it too has fallen to the ground. What good is a knife when it won't stay on its key ring? So you panic. You can't escape and there's no hope. Your blood pressure begins tp rise and then you realize that you are no coward. Panicking was weak.  
Calm down. No one's coming as far as you can hear or see. No one followed you. You manage to deceive yourself as you reach into your backpack, the one thing that managed to stay with you. Even your shovel lay on the ground. Oh shit. Now you start to panic again. He'd forgive you for one failed mission, but you would DIE without that thing. Now your frantic race to get down is even faster paced. You can't seem to calm down despite how many times you've muttered it to yourself.  
As you fish through your bag for something- anything- useful, your hands shake, making it impossible to recognize anything by touch. You growl loudly, before mentally smacking yourself. They probably heard that. They could be on their way here now. Now you KNOW you're screwed. Sure enough there they are, sprinting through the part in the brush with their guns and…dogs. "Herr Cartman, haben wir das Ziel im Anblick" one of them said into their walkie-talkies.  
"Oh, _son of a **beetch**_!" you gasp, truly afraid.  
The radio crackles. You can make out what it says "Gut. Töten Sie jetzt ihn... wieder". Good. Now kill him…again.  
"Ja. Hunde, Angriff!" the dogs began barking madly and you yell out for help… but it's too late. They let the dogs off the leashes and they move inhumanly fast to you. Just one more inch and they'll—_

"CHRISTOPHE!" I heard a familiar voice hiss loudly in my ear and I felt someone shaking me violently. I shoot up in bed with a yell, flailing my arms wildly. I looked around. A widescreen TV, a large window with the cream-colored curtains drawn tightly shut, a huge bookshelf full of Shakespeare and Dickens, a shovel and a sword, and one extremely freaked-out-looking blonde in a huge T-shirt and shorts, his grey-blue, almost colorless eyes wide in fright. I realized there wasn't really a threat and relaxed back against the headboard. I could hear a very quiet Queen song playing from the laptop sitting on the foot of the bed, and two sets of breath. One was panicked, and the other like someone had just run a mile.  
"Gregory?" I ask. He crawls closer before sighing.  
"Are you quite alright? You gave me quite a scare, what with the thrashing about and muttering things in German…which I must say is odd. I didn't know you spoke German" he reclined down next to me breathlessly, the panic still clear on his pretty face.  
"Yes, yes. I speak German. Sorry about scaring you. I 'ad one nasty dream…" I ran a hand through my sweaty hair.  
"What was it about?" he turned to face me.  
"Nozzing much, just being attacked…"  
"Please elaborate a bit more"  
"By Nazis…een a forest"  
"Now you're just sounding silly" he laughed and ruffled my hair "At least it's over now" he reached for the laptop, but I caught his hand. His head snapped over to face me. "What is it, Mole?"  
"I 'ad a dream where zat terreeble Eric Cartman got me again. Zey won't stop coming. Eet's starting to freak me out" his face softened, all humor gone.  
"I see. I used to have dreams like that when I had suffered trauma recently. Like when you…well this one time my friend back in England, her father killed her mother. She had to move away, so I had dream about me going to get her back, but every time I was killed by her father. The dream always ended with me dying, looking into a mirror. I was always a skeleton…" he trailed off, looking into the distance as if reminiscing. I slid my hand down his wrist to his hand.  
"I'm sure eet's nozzing, mon cher" I gave his hand a squeeze and let him retrieve his precious laptop. He turned off the music and began to type at record speeds, focusing intently on whatever he was doing. I watched his hands as they clacked away. They looked small, fragile. But I knew that they could wring a neck with little to no effort on their part. "You are very small" I thought aloud. The clicking stopped and his fingers rested onto the sides of the keyboard.  
"Am I, now? What brought this up?" he asked.  
"I was just looking at your 'ands. Zey are so small, and yet zey can do big zings"  
"If that's a euphemism I'm going to shoot you dead right here" he warned. I laughed and shook my head.  
"No, no. I mean somezing like shoot a gun wiz perfect aim, type a paper zat can sway even ze greatest minds, or even strangle someone as beeg as your own fazzer"  
"My father has a rather large neck – being a rather large man - and however much you may think I can, or however much I wish I could, I don't think I could manage that great of a feat" he began to clack away at the keys again as if the conversation hadn't taken place. I bit my lip and continued watching for a few moments.  
"In my dream I was protecting somezing" I blurted. He continued typing. I thought he was ignoring me, but he stopped, clicked a few times, and shut the computer. All light in the room faded and he slipped under the mangled covers.  
"If you keep talking I will never get any work done" he sighed "So what was it that you were protecting?"  
"I'm not sure… eet was wrapped een paper like meat at ze deli" I was cut off by a badly restrained giggle from Gregory "But I know it was somezing of yours" he ceased.  
"What shape was it, Christophe?" he asked quietly.  
"Long and zin" I answered.  
"Well I do believe that would be my sword, dear Mole. I can't think of anything else I own that would be worth protecting that's long and thin" he said unwaveringly. I nodded.  
"Per'aps, mon ami"  
"I do believe you are more fragile than I" Gregory whispered, suddenly very close to my ear. I pushed him away softly.  
"Why would you say such a zing? You are ze fragile one" I scoffed. He simply put both hands on my shoulder, lifting himself up to my ear again.  
"Because you are sensitive; fragile mentally. If anything goes wrong with your health, — I hate to sound selfish, you know — with me, or with 'us', then you have these terrible dreams. La Resistance was six years ago, Christophe" he kissed me softly on the cheek and rested his head where his hands were.  
"Hypocreete" I scoffed again. He shrugged.  
"Perhaps I am. Either way, you know it's true"  
"Yes, but you are ze more fragile physeecally"  
"If you want to think that way, then so be it" Gregory pinched my arm.  
"OW! What ze fuck, you beetch?!" I shoved him off my shoulder. He laughed, and then shushed me.  
"If you wake up Mother and Daddy, there'll be hell to pay! They'll never let you over again" he slapped my arm and I pushed him again. He teetered for a moment before falling of the bed.  
"What makes you zink I care if I come over ever again?" I asked maliciously. He peeked over the top of the bed at me, his eyes conveying hurt for a moment.  
'Wait a second, Christo--" I cut him off with a little kiss.  
"Now 'oo's fragile mentally?" I asked. We shared a smile.  
"Go to bed, Mole"


End file.
